


Chilli/Chilly/Chills

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-26
Updated: 2016-09-26
Packaged: 2018-08-17 11:48:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8142671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: Lucyemers on tumblr prompted me to write fluffy Hathaway h/c, so here you go! He's got a cold, Lewis fusses.





	

“Don’t talk to me,” Hathaway says, when Robbie pokes his head in to see if he’s ready for a pint. 

 

“I’ll take that as a fervent ‘yes’ to my next question,” Robbie says, pushing the door wider open. He takes Hathaway in. Sprawled in his chair, tie undone, cuffs and collar buttons open. He’s sweaty. His cheeks are flushed but the rest of him pale. Paler than usual. He looks more translucent than ever. “Or not. I was going to ask how your cold’s going, but clearly not well. I was also gonna invite you along to the pub, but I think I might just offer you a lift home.”

 

“Don’t,” Hathaway says. “I’ve still got- ugh.”

 

He sits forward, rifling in his pockets, a hand covering his face. Robbie pulls out a pack of tissues and hands a few over. He has to tap James’s wrist to get his attention. 

 

“Oh, thanks,” James says, so congested it’s just a bunch of sounds. 

 

He blows his nose, sneezes a sneeze that sounds violent and painful, then dumps the tissues. Robbie hands him more, and waits while he blows his nose again. 

 

“Lift home, lad?” Robbie offers, resting a hand on James’s shoulder. “Come on. Bring all this with you, if you have to.”

 

“I’d prefer a pint.”

 

“That’s because you’re a stubborn, contrary bugger, Hathaway.”

 

“Sir? Oh, hello Robbie, sorry,” Lizzie says, tapping cursorily on the door and coming in. “Sir, I got a call from our witness. She’s turned up in Cowley, says she was at her Mum’s with her phone off. Think something happened to her?”

 

“No,” James says. “I think she was at her Mum’s. You haven’t met her, have you? She was definitely at her Mum’s with her phone off, because she’s a god-damned idiot. Better check up, though, Maddox.”

 

“Yes sir,” Lizzie says, with a grimace and a wink to Robbie. “I’ll just do that right now, shall I?”

 

“Yes,” James says. 

 

“Text Tony and tell him I’ll be late, shall I? Leave him at the pub with this lot?” Maddox says, tapping Robbie’s arm. 

 

“Go away, Maddox,” James says. 

 

“Yes sir. Oh, before I do, that license you wanted came back.”

 

“He’ll check it in the morning,” Robbie says, firmly. 

 

“Ah,” Maddox says. 

 

“Whose is it?” James says, with a weary sigh, which catches on congestion and turns into a chesty cough. Robbie hands him the entire packet of tissues. 

 

“It’s Harry Japes’, sir,” Maddox says. 

 

“Well, shit,” James says. 

 

“I’ll get it,” Robbie says. “Go  _ home _ , James.”

 

“You were giving me a lift, though, sir. How’ll I ever get there without you?” James says. 

 

“I’ll ring you a taxi,” Robbie says, then stares James down. 

 

He’s too flushed, too congested, too chesty. He should be in bed. Robbie dealt with Morse, if James thinks a slight lad like him is going to get around Robbie, he’s got another think coming. Why he wants to be at work in the first place Robbie can’t imagine. He must be miserable. James is glowering, but he’s interrupted by another of the throat-tearing sneezes, which he muffles in his shoulder, tissues still in their packet. He manages to get a handful out to catch the second sneeze and a series of coughs, after which he slumps into the desk. 

 

“Yes, sir,” James says. 

 

Robbie smiles, and shoos Maddox out, shutting the door. He looks around the office and spots Crickley filling in reports, looking settled in for a few hours. Robbie rings a taxi, listens to Maddox complain about having to post-pone plans and gets the address she’s headed to, and the info on whoever Harry Jape is and what Robbie’s supposed to do with it. Then he heads over to Crickley and settles on the desk beside him. 

 

“What do you want Robbie?” Crickley says, not looking up. 

 

“Keep an eye on Hathaway’s door. If he comes out for anything other than the bathroom or to pick up the taxi I just ordered for him, call me?” 

 

“You’ll owe me a pint,” Crickley says. 

 

Robbie shrugs. He can afford a pint. He gets up and stretches, gathers his jacket from his own office, and heads for the car. Harry Jape, undergrad Maths student who came forwards as a witness, car spotted far far away from where he stated he was, in the perfect location for a little body shifting and dumping. It takes Robbie fifteen minutes to decide that Hathaway’s gut is (according to what Maddox said) correct, as usual. The boy’s barely seventeen, in years. Mentally he seems more like a pre-teen. Living at home with parents, clever as they come but lacking common sense, he’s lying through his teeth, but there’s no way he’s lifting and shifting bodies. Why he even has a car Robbie can’t guess. He seems to leave it parked around the city, unlocked, and hasn’t seen it recently, can’t remember where he could’ve left it. Robbie gets a recorded statement from him and a promise to come by the station in the morning to fill in a report on the stolen car.

 

He finishes up for the evening, with a shed-load of paperwork. Maybe he’ll make James pay for that pint he owes Crickley. For this amount of paperwork, maybe he’ll make James get in an evening’s worth of rounds. Robbie checks Maddox got back okay and clocked out, checks James isn’t still in his office, and then heads home. He’s gratified to see the living-room lights on, less so to find the front door open, and even less so to find James up, in the kitchen, cooking what looks like a twelve course meal. Or trying to. As Robbie steps into the room, James is bent in half with a series of sneezes. He hangs onto the counter to keep upright, so Robbie goes to steady him. 

 

“Bless you. What are you doing?” Robbie asks. James starts, nearly falling over again. Robbie wraps a firm arm around his waist and reaches up to feel his forehead. “You have a fever.”

 

“You can’t tell from touching a person’s forehead, that’s an old wive’s… thing,” James says, snuffling pitifully. Robbie looks around for tissues, and finds a box set by the chopping board. He grabs the last few in there and pushes them against James’s face. 

 

“Blow your nose, have a drink of water, and go lie down. What are you doing in here?” Robbie asks. 

 

“Answering questions wasn’t on the list of orders,” James grumbles, blowing his nose. 

 

Robbie sees him to the sofa in the living-room, and wraps him in a blanket, tucking it into the cushions in the hopes it’ll keep him there. He looks around for tissues, finds none, and heads for the bathroom listening to James coughing. He finds half a box of tissues, a couple of Tescos cold and flu pills, and a thermometer, and heads back. James seems to have given in to the fact he’s staying on the sofa tonight. Robbie kneels and sticks the thermometer in his mouth. James glares. 

 

“It wasn’t Harry,” Robbie says. “He’s scatter-brained, can’t remember where he left his car, it was probably stolen. He’s lying though. Also, the two of you have something in common.”

 

“What’s that?” James asks, the thermometer beeping allowing him to speak again. 

 

“You both leave doors unlocked,” Robbie says, looking at the thermometer. “Jesus, James, you’re temperature’s thirty eight point eight.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Them pills should help, and lying still should help, and not going in to work tomorrow should help,” Robbie says. 

 

“I do feel a bit rotten.”

 

“What were you doing in the kitchen? There’s nothing that’s going to burn the house down, is there?”

 

“There are some potatoes in the oven. I was just making chilli,” James says. “My sinuses are killing me.”

 

“I’ve got a tin of that, I think,” Robbie says, watching James. The horrified affront is perfect. Robbie grins. “Tell me what to do and I’ll finish it up.”

 

“Do you actually have tinned chilli, though?” James asks, gazing at Robbie out of watery, red eyes. 

 

“Nah. Not got any in at the moment,” Robbie says, then laughs again, reaching over to rub James’s arm and leaning down to kiss his cheek and then his hair. “It’s cheap and easy, and mostly just tomatoes.”

 

“You’re terrible.”

 

“You eat twenty pee Tesco value instant noodles,” Robbie says. “Or go weeks living off wine. Now, tell me what to do with all that chaos in there.”

 

“There are some tomatoes, and a pan of water. Add a pinch of salt to the water and bring it to the boil, then boil the tomatoes for about forty seconds. Dump them in cold water and then, when they’re cool, the skins’ll come off,” James says. 

 

“Alright,” Robbie says, thinking to just use a couple of tins. “What do I do with the tomatoes then?”

 

“Chop them. There’s a bowl of garlic and spices, and I’ve chopped the onion. Sautee the onion, then when it’s translucent, add the garlic etc. Just needs a few minutes. Then add the tomatoes, and the kidney beans. There’s a tin of those, you’ll like that. Add some of the passata that’s out, too. Maybe a bit of lime.”

 

James coughs again, shoulders shaking, and presses his face into the sofa cushion. Robbie kisses his hair and holds his shoulder. When he’s done, Robbie straightens up with a creak and a pop, stretches, and wanders into the kitchen. He ignore the tomatoes and the water, but he otherwise follows what James says. He adds some roast peppers he has in the fridge from some other recipe James tried last week. He turns the heat down and leaves it to simmer, when everything’s in, and puts the ingredients away. There’s a lot more out than what goes in the chilli. Robbie gets out grated cheese and yoghurt and two bowls and sets them all on a tray. He makes a big mug of tea sweetened with honey, a little ginger added to the submarine tea thingy. James likes his teas, loose leaf, in the little tea thingy. The submarine was a gift from Maddox. It’s bright yellow and sinks to rest fattly on the bottom of the mug. Robbie puts the hook over the handle and then sets that on the tray, too, and checks the potatoes. They’re soft, their skins a touch crispy. 

 

James sits up for dinner, but when Robbie sits beside him he leans so far against Robbie he’s almost lying down again. He eats his chilli as it is, but Robbie drowns his in yoghurt. He’s had James’s chilli before, he knows how spicy it is. He adds pepper and cayenne and chili and flakes and all. It clears James’s sinuses- he sneezes over and over, snuffling into a handful of tissues, as Robbie finishes his food. It makes him cough as well, so Robbie rubs his back and shoulders. 

 

“You sound awful,” Robbie says, kissing James’s hair, when they’re both finished. Half of James’s potato is left, stripped of chilli, looking a bit sad. “You doing okay?”

 

“Yeah,” James says, sniffing and sitting up. “Feel a bit better. I’ve had a rotten sinus headache all day.”

 

“That cough isn’t good.”

 

“Stop bloody fussing at me, Robbie. It’s just a cold.”

 

“Patrick used to get bronchitis,” Robbie says.

 

“I am most definitely not your son.”

 

“No, you’re not. But still, you’re here, and I’m looking after you.”

 

“I’m here to try and stop you worrying yourself to death over me, I’m fine.”

 

Robbie grunts noncommittally, and puts the TV on, putting his feet up. He puts his feet back down again and retrieves the mug of tea, then sits back, feet up again. James watches him, amused, then settles curled against him, head on Robbie’s shoulder. 

 

“Is that mine?” he asks, pointing at the tea. 

 

“It’s just fuss,” Robbie says, taking a sip. It’s still warm, the mug one of the thick insulated ones. 

 

“Give,” James says. 

 

Robbie passes it over, and strokes James’s hair, feeling the heat of his skin, the way he’s sweated on his scalp and dampened his hair. James tilts his head back a little, revealing his pink cheeks and nose and wet eyes. Robbie shifts so he can press his lips to James’s forehead, but James sniffs and moves, so Robbie catches his dry lips instead. Robbie strokes his cheek and gives in, kissing him. 

 

“I’ll catch it,” Robbie says, pulling away. 

 

“You will anyway, we work in a germ incubator,” James says. 

 

Robbie kisses him again, then nudges him so he can kiss his cheek and hair. James settles with a little cough, sipping his tea. He elbows Robbie and steals the remote, changing from the news to Hollyoaks. Robbie protests. They settle, not unusually, on Netflix and an episode of Doctor Who. James falls asleep once he’s finished his tea. Robbie just wraps him in the blanket and keeps him close, until he’s ready to head up to bed. It might be more comfortable stretched out upstairs, but it seems sort of warmer down here, somehow, so Robbie keeps him close. 


End file.
